The middle school girls at the beach 
scatter on the mounds of sand like seagulls 
on unaccompanied blankets. Others play 
volleyball and shriek when the ball lands 
just outside of the seaweed drawn perimeter. 
May a part of them always be 13 and summer 
bravery, running to towels out of the cold breakers, 
home for dinner. May they never know bodies 
afraid, may they always be stomach blaring, 
sand-patched legs, and endless energy. May 
there always be a popsicle at the end of the day, 
an ice cream cone, a pop that isn’t purposefully 
diet. May the sport stay a sport and nothing 
more. At this beach, no bathroom mirrors, 
no mirrors at all, the smallest bit of cellphone 
reception possible. I was them too, once. A girl 
of salt and sunburns, ignorant to the forces 
that might make me something else, someone 
else, a person who would rather drown than bear 
thighs in public. It’s a story that has more to do 
with time than age. Maybe there are places 
the hands can’t reach. Somewhere, someone 
is plotting their theft. What I had in magazines, 
they have in fingers. I wish them refuge from 
numbers. I wish them reward without exhaustion, 
hunger without deprivation. The world will take 
before the absence can be realized. It’s a story 
that has more to do with history than time. May 
there always be another weekend, another week, 
another season. May summer always hold 
the same weight; a packed bag; a deflating 
beach ball; an empty bottle of lotion;
the longest days of the year